


For the Soaring High or the Crushing Down

by orphan_account



Category: Jonas Brothers
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-28
Updated: 2010-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe has incredibly bad ideas, and Nick has to deal with them.  "<i>You're</i> here to have fun.  I'm here to chaperone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Soaring High or the Crushing Down

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, this has got some mild noncon (if you can ever call noncon mild). And incest. Also mild. Be warned in case of triggers or squick.
> 
> Not beta'd, because I can't man up and ask anyone I know to look over my shame. Aside from Sainterre, of course, who I tortured enough for a lifetime during the creation of this fic – literally until she passed out. This snuck up on me and got slightly serious business without my permission! Also, deepest apologies to all Mormons everywhere, but especially in SLC, and obviously the Jonas brothers. Title ganked from Elliott Smith.

–

"Dude, it'll be fun," Joe said.

"No, it's pretty much the worst idea you've ever had."

Joe slid his sunglasses up to the top of his head, probably just so he could clearly be seen rolling his eyes. "I've never had a bad idea in my life." He wisely didn't pause long enough to let Nick speak. "Come on, you'll have a great time." The enthusiasm in his voice was almost exactly like those times at three a.m. when Nick was trying to convince everyone that putting down another backing track was way more awesome than sleep. It was a little eerie.

Nick was busy, or was _trying_ to be busy, transcribing chords. Joe decided to perch himself on the edge of Nick's rigid hotel bed, shoulders blocking out most of the ceiling light. Nick gave up and tossed down his pencil, pushing himself up from his stomach and into a sitting position. "I don't even know where to begin."

Joe smiled and dipped the sunglasses back down over his face. He was fully ready to go out, and he thought he could get away with wearing _sunglasses at night_. The lack of irony was painful. "You can start by getting dressed. Unless you want to rock a hoodie and sweatpants." He grabbed the dangling strings of said hoodie, twisted them around his fingers, and tugged. Nick didn't bother to swat him away.

"You're gonna get caught."

Joe scoffed. "No we're not."

"Yes, you are. Sunglasses aren't a disguise."

"It's _Salt Lake City_. There are no paparazzi in Utah."

They weren't even supposed to be in Utah, technically, but their connecting flight was grounded for emergency repairs, and the next one wasn't until morning. They decided to stay at the Marriott instead of navigating the headache of finding alternate arrangements. No one but family and hotel staff knew they were in the city at all. Which wasn't the point, and Nick was going to strike it down if Joe brought it up.

"Your stupid drunk face is going to end up on Perez Hilton tomorrow because of someone's camera phone."

Joe shrugged. "I'm not going out to drink."

"I'm not really in the mood for a press conference," Nick said. "Or mom freaking out."

"I said I wasn't going to drink! I'm just going out to _go out_. You should come with me. I promise I'll get you back to your coffin before sunrise."

"Our flight leaves at ten thirty, and you want to go clubbing?"

"One club. Singular. I swear to God you'll get at least –" Joe's face pulled in concentration "– five hours of sleep. Five and a half. Five. Whatever, you can sleep on the plane."

"Wow, I'm really excited to stand around and not sleep while you party it up in _Utah_." His glare was halfway between withering and resigned.

Joe grinned, his teeth flashing stark white against the tan of his face and the tinted black of his idiotic sunglasses. "Yeah, see? It's Utah. Everybody's Mormon! What's the worst that can happen?"

The many and varied answers that popped into his head were useless. Joe wanted to do something, and no amount of earth logic was going to stop him. If Nick stayed at the hotel, finished his chords and ordered room service to eat while he watched HBO, he'd be anxious. More anxious than he would be hanging out at some club, waiting for the inevitable camera flash when Joe – danced on a table, or something. It'd be worse if he sat up all night and waited, knowing he wasn't there to save his brother from himself and his really bad ideas.

"You're the legal adult, and I'm the responsible one. Something's wrong with this picture." He was already off the bed and headed for the suitcase, hoping for something that wasn't wadded up or that smelled like airport. A small part of him wanted to go out in the hoodie and sweatpants, just to suck, but if they did end up on Perez Hilton, he didn't want to look like he'd gone out for yoga and gotten lost.

"Check your sugar before we leave," Joe said cheerfully. Nick grunted and started pawing through dirty clothes. "Oh, man, did you hear that?" he went on, standing above Nick like a scarecrow dressed in a leather jacket and Vans. "I think I was just _responsible_. Something _is_ wrong with this picture."

–

Forty five minutes later, Nick had his back to a wall and was silently nursing a diet Coke. Joe had _snuck him in_ by shoving his ID at Nick just before they'd gotten to the door. Nick thought that slapping the hell out of his brother in front of a bouncer wasn't a good idea, so he unwillingly went along with it.

He was annoyed at Joe, annoyed at having been carded in the first place. They didn't look _that_ far apart in age, and Joe went in without so much as a second glance. Okay, so Nick had been shivering, completely incapable of speech or any expression aside from abject misery, and little ice crystals had formed in his hair. He was pretty sure he looked like a lost twelve year old. Joe, meanwhile, swanned in while checking his text messages and working day-old stubble. Still. Nick was out in a city he didn't know, Joe had made them _walk_ the two blocks over in sub-zero temperatures – he still couldn't feel his ears – and he'd been forced into using a fake ID to get into somewhere he didn't want to be. Annoyance was his right.

Once inside, Joe had bought him the diet Coke, frowned, and rubbed Nick's arms vigorously. "You look like Oliver Twist," he said, and gave Nick his leather jacket to wear on top of everything else. Nick sorely regretted not wearing the hoodie.

"Do you think this place sells coffee?" he asked.

Joe laughed. "Yeah, no." His expression turned worried again, humorless and intense. "Maybe this wasn't a great idea--"

"No, you're not making us leave when we just got here." Mostly Nick didn't want to leave the warm sanctum of the club, not even if the journey was from the sidewalk to the inside of a taxi. He was _not_ walking back.

Joe brightened a little. He usually took Nick's word for law. "You should try to have fun," he said, "I've heard good things."

"_You're_ here to have fun. I'm here to chaperone."

Joe looked genuinely amused, all of the worry gone. He'd mercifully ditched the sunglasses for his regular pair, and his smile was so wide it pushed up his cheeks and narrowed his eyes. He looked so happy, so strangely in his element, that Nick didn't have the heart to keep giving him a hard time. He was still peeved over being there, over nearly freezing to death, but Nick would do anything for his brother, and all told, faking a good mood barely ranked on the list.

"Go," Nick said with a smile, and flapped a hand in the general direction of the dance floor. "Mingle. Be one with the people."

He must have been convincing. Joe left to mingle, settling in with a group in minutes like he always did. Well. 'Always' in some alternate universe where they lived normal lives and could go out without being immediately identified and, you know, mobbed. People liked Joe. They liked him for _him_, usually, which was a rarity in a world where necessity meant every new person was greeted with suspicion and vetted like a presidential candidate. Joe had the good sense not to, but he could have gone out every night and created himself a posse out of thin air each time.

Nick had no interest in a posse, or any new friends in particular, or mingling in a Salt Lake City club. He sipped his diet Coke and got out his Blackberry to check his email while he waited. He tried not to think about how much time he was going to have to kill.

As it turned out, not that much time. Joe was back and tugging on his arm, three or four people behind him. Nick raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"I've come to rescue you," Joe said, chewing on a green drink straw he had randomly dangling out of his mouth. "Come and hang out." He nodded toward the people clustered behind him. "They want to meet you."

He gave them all a closed-mouth smile and shook his head at Joe. "Seriously, I'm fine here." Joe looked like he was lightning-fast with a rebuttal, so he tried the only card he had that wasn't outright guilt: "I'm still kind of cold, and this is right under a heating vent." It wasn't a lie; it was why he'd picked the spot to begin with.

Joe frowned and rubbed at Nick's arms again, now totally pointless through the leather. "Well," he said dubiously, the straw flicking up and down with each word, "you let me know when you've used up all the perks of being a wallflower, okay?" He grinned cheesily. "We can totally dance."

Nick laughed, shoving at Joe's shoulder. "Go. I'm not dancing with you."

"You _say_ that, but your eyes say yes."

"No. Not ever. Not for all the money in the world." His mouth was working its way into a smile, totally against his will. Joe noticed and Nick knew he was three seconds away from doing the robot, one arm already raised from his side. "I brought mace," he said warningly.

Laughing, Joe leaned in for a brief hug, mostly to reassure himself – Nick was well aware this was the first of many attempts to make him have fun against his will – and was gone again to hold court.

–

The first stares of the night happened while he was buried in a game of Snake. He felt eyes on him, animal instinct making his skin crawl with the awareness. Nick didn't look up; it was possible they only _thought_ they recognized him, and making eye contact was a potential invitation for disaster. He worried his lower lip and kept screwing with his phone, super-conscious of the thumping music and half-yelled conversation going on around him.

Someone broke, eventually. They usually did. Typically it happened in a supermarket, or some airport store, occasionally walking down the street; this was the first time he'd had to brave it in a place like this. He didn't have the security of bodyguards for once in his life, and last time he looked up, Joe was still sitting at the other end of club with his little group.

The girl came to stand in front of him, so close he could smell her perfume, and he could only pretend to not notice her for so long. Nick looked up, and blue eyes rimmed with even brighter blue liner stared back at him, unshrinking.

"Hi," she said. "So, like, are you really one of those Jonas brothers?"

This was a step up from mocking confrontation or hysteria, but it wasn't Nick's favorite thing ever. "Yeah, I am." Lying, as he'd learned years back, never ended well.

"Cool. My friends said you were, but I figured they were trying to Punk me." She didn't break her stare, but she smiled. "I'm Lindsay."

"Nick."

"Are you here with anyone?" she asked, right as someone tried to pass her in a hurry, and ended up knocking her towards him. Nick was already against a wall, so he didn't exactly have anywhere to go. He shifted uncomfortably.

"My brother."

"Cool."

Nick was pretty sure exchanges at a club were supposed to go down with a little bit more sophistication than those at your average eighth grade dance, but maybe he was wrong. Sighing inwardly, he tried. "Are you here with anyone?"

"My boyfriend, but we got in a fight, so now I'm hanging out with the guy I went out with before him." She tossed off a smile and a shrug that seemed at least slightly self-deprecating. "Whatever."

Nick wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, but he had to think of something, or that weird thing that happened when he was the right combination of awkward and silent was going to sneak up on him: he was going to start laughing. He squirmed trying to think of something. Lindsay kept looking at him; Nick bit his lip. "What's that?" he asked finally, gesturing with his drink to what looked like a silver class ring, letters embossed on the face of it.

"It's my engagement ring to God," she said, blank as a canvas, and Nick had to fight laughter again by reminding himself of his extreme hypocrisy and the knowledge that diet Coke wasn't going to feel so hot going up his nose.

"Oh," he said, lost. He considered showing her his own ring, but he wasn't sure what that was going to accomplish. _Look at that, we're both virgins at a club, isn't that neat? We could start a club; The Virgins at a Club club._ "That's nice."

"My body is a temple."

Nick nodded. He wondered if it was some kind of Mormon pick-up line. She just kept _staring_. "Is that, uh, going all right for you?"

"Well, I'm probably getting married soon," she said, like that was any answer at all. At his bewildered lack of response, she went on. "I think it's cool that you're a Jonas brother."`

"Mmm," he said placidly, ducking his head to pretend to check his phone. "Hey, my brother texted me, I've gotta go catch up with him."

"Sure," she said, as he hastily made his way to the group Joe was sitting with.

Had been sitting with. They'd mostly dispersed, and Joe was nowhere to be found. Nick nodded at one of the guys he recognized from before. "Where'd my brother go?" he asked, standing closer than he'd like to be heard over the music.

He got a shit-eating grin for his trouble, which was mildly alarming, and a knowing up and down glance, which was even weirder. Everyone was officially insane. "Bathroom."

Okay. He slipped his phone into his pocket and headed in that direction, squeezing through a throng of bodies. He still had a hard time processing the fact that _this_ was Joe's choice for a night out.

The bathroom was mostly empty inside, one guy at the urinals, overhead lights flickering like an annoying strobe, and Nick's reflection in the big smudged mirror looked tired. Two of the stall doors were shut.

"Joe?" he tried, quieter than he would have on the floor, but still having to project over the music. Which was finally something he recognized; Sean Kingston. "Joe? You in here?"

There was a muffled thump and what sounded like a cut-off yelp, which had his hackles up. Instantly a hundred different nightmare scenarios assailed him; someone slipping something in his drink, some jerk trying to teach the famous guy a lesson for daring to be something, for hitting on his girlfriend, for getting free drinks, for existing. His heart slammed like it was up against his ribs, a bird in a cage. Nick's hand shook and he started pulling open all the stall doors, one by one.

"Is anyone else in here?" he asked the man at the urinal, as each stall revealed nothing.

"Yeah, I think."

There were contingency plans if they got separated, harsh realities they'd been prepped for, but the only thing he could think was how they should never have left, how stupid Joe was for thinking they could go out without protection, like they were anybody else. How he was going to kill him if he wasn't in a ditch somewhere already. He managed to fumble his phone out of his pocket, switching it on, Joe first on his contacts.

The chorus of Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds suddenly filling the air, tinny and indistinct, caused a rush of relieved adrenalin so intense his knees nearly collapsed from under him. It felt like he was going to pass out, like he'd waited too long between meals and worked himself too hard. "Joe," he said again, louder this time, "what's wrong? Are you sick?"

The door to the handicap stall opened partially. Someone who was definitely not Joe leaned out, looking harassed. The ringtone kept playing. "Dude, what the fuck?"

Tight-lipped, Nick stepped forward and yanked the door open all the way.

Joe was backed up pretty much against the toilet, eyes wide, white shirt pushed up to his bellybutton and the belt to his jeans undone, zipper down, pants sagging.

At least he wasn't dead.

"What the fuck is this?" he asked, in a tone he didn't recognize.

To his credit, Joe looked completely horrorstruck. He jerkily tugged his shirt down.

"None of your business," said the person Nick was two seconds away from punching in the face.

"Joe," Nick said very slowly, "please tell me this isn't what it looks like."

"It isn't," Joe said, voice low and breaking while he stared at the ground. His glasses were askew and he wasn't making any move to fix his pants, completely still, and Nick's whole body flushed with a sensation so alien and all-consuming it took him a long moment to realize what it was. Rage.

"Get away from my brother," he said, staring past the man to look at Joe, who wouldn't look back at him. It made his stomach wrench. He thought there was nothing in the world that could frighten Joe into inaction, make him shrink in on himself. "Get away from my brother or I will fucking kill you."

He could have, or the nearest thing to it; body checking the guy to the ground and bashing in his face. No one hurt his brother. No one should be _able_ to hurt him. Joe should have –

Nick shook the thought away almost before it fully formed; tainted with anger, it had no place in his head.

The man must have recognized that Nick was dead serious, because he edged out of the stall in a hurry, tossing a "whatever" over his shoulder, and Nick was too busy staring at his brother to chase after him.

Joe didn't move. Nick came closer, still knotted up inside, hands clenching and unclenching into fists at his sides. "Are you okay?" he asked, flat.

It was like the words unlocked him. Joe ran a hand through his hair and exhaled shakily. "I am now."

"Bullshit." A few more steps, and he had Joe backed up against the toilet like – Nick gritted his teeth. "What the hell were you thinking?" which was entirely not what he meant to say, but the fear and rage weren't going anywhere, and Joe looked so stupidly helpless with his pants undone, like he wasn't a fully grown man who worked out five days a week.

"I was thinking I needed to use the bathroom," Joe said in a distant voice. "The rest just kind of – snuck up on me."

"Jesus, Joe." He yanked at Joe so hard they collided together, the loose belt buckle jingling and then prodding Nick's hip. Joe was stiff as a board, and Nick wanted to shake him, but he couldn't. His heart was crashing down from its revved up rhythm, and he wanted to cry but he couldn't do that to Joe, either.

Joe tucked Nick against him, breath in his hair, uneven. Nick had the whole line of Joe's bare throat up against his cheek as he rested his head on Joe's shoulder, and he was curling fists into Joe's shirt, desperate.

"Jesus," Nick said again, afraid to let go, and Joe's arms fastened around his waist like clamps.

They were silent for a long time, no space between them, and Nick kissed the side of Joe's neck, so low he caught the collar of his shirt, dry lips against dry cotton. Joe's fingers clenched against his back, he felt it even through the leather, and then Nick felt pressure against his hair, his temple. He kissed Joe's skin again and tasted salt. Sweat.

Eventually they pulled apart, begrudging as magnets, and Nick looked at his brother, touched his palm to the side of his face, the skin there fever-hot.

"You're okay," he said, and Joe didn't have to answer.

The guy at the urinals was probably having a really fucked up night. He wasn't the only one. Nick was very aware that what had just happened -- from the man trying to take what he shouldn't, to the press up against Joe -- wasn't supposed to. The staggered look on Joe's face pretty much validated it.

"Hotel," he said, grabbing Joe's forearm, but glancing down when he remembered. "You might want to," he started quietly, and Joe pulled himself together.

Nick didn't move his hand from Joe's arm, even through the hushed taxi ride back to the Marriott. He only let go when they were back in the room, door locked, the night shut out.

He took off Joe's jacket and draped it on the back of a chair.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Joe said softly, although he sounded more like himself.

"Okay," Nick said, feeling awkward because he had nothing to do now. The entire thing kept playing on a loop in his head like a movie that had happened to somebody else.

"You should go to bed, get some sleep." Nick gave him a look that said exactly how likely that wasn't. Joe smiled faintly at it and shook his head. "Yeah."

He changed into pajamas and waited, listening to the water running. The relative silence was unnerving, but he didn't want to turn on the television, so he settled into bed and propped himself up against the headboard.

Joe came out dressed in boxers and hair messy-wet. "What time is our flight again?" he asked, rubbing a towel through it.

"Ten thirty. We should leave at like eight." Like Joe wouldn't know that. Nick hoped that the terrible awkward feeling would go away before they touched down at L.A.X. that afternoon.

He didn't really sleep; the lights were on, he was too freaked out, but he must have dozed, because it was seven-thirty in the morning when it had been two, and Joe touched his shoulder gently.

"Hey, we have to get going." He had a can of apple juice in one hand, and Nick's meter in the other.

Nick stretched, shoulders sore, and nodded.

\--

"That never would have happened in L.A.," Joe muttered, a propos of nothing while they checked their baggage. The attendant was busy doing his job and paid absolutely no attention to them, or at least did a good job of pretending to.

Nick eyed him. "You go clubbing a lot back in L.A.?" There were some things he didn't know about Joe, but not many, even now that they mostly lived in separate spaces. What he didn't know, TMZ enjoyed filling him in on, and it was usually stuff Joe wouldn't bother to tell him, like how he went to The Grove or did a hundred reps at the gym.

"Not really. I went with Marc and Jordan."

Nick snorted. "Marc and Jordan would have shanked anyone who came within fifty feet of you."

A tired smile lifted the corners of Joe's mouth. "_You_ would shank anyone who came within fifty feet of me."

Nick considered this. "Pretty much."

Joe shook his head, amused, and finally they were cleared to move on. Bags strapped over their shoulders, gate announcements blaring, they walked on auto-pilot, airport protocol practically muscle memory at this point.

"Do you want to call mom?" Nick asked, once they were where they were supposed to be and just waiting.

"Not yet," Joe said. "Before we board." He hesitated and leaned in, taking up all of his space and what he could of Nick's. "Listen, I want to thank you--"

Nick twitched just hearing him say it. "No, you don't thank me for that."

"Yes I do. I wanted to explain--"

"You don't explain it, either. It could have happened to me. It would have gone down the same way." He had a lot of time packing and getting to the airport to think about it, and honestly it would have. He would have frozen up too. And Joe would have actually beat the shit out of whoever tried to touch him, so maybe not exactly the same, but close enough.

"It wouldn't have. It won't."

They were about to be called first to board, halting the conversation. Joe got up with his phone and moved away to call their mom, pre-flight ritual. He took long enough that by the time he got onto the plane, Nick was settled and had his iPod out, carry-on stowed. Joe sat in the window seat next to him, even though it was first class with plenty of room and they were booked across from each other.

"How's mom?" Nick asked, resting his head against the seat. He was so tired his eyes stung.

"She's fine. She's excited to see us." As though they'd been gone for a month instead of four days. Every time.

They had a long while before the plane would take off. Joe was looking out the window, squinting at the tarmac, gray French Connection sweater that he really should throw out making him look oddly pale. Nick touched his forearm, bare now with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"You should sleep," he said.

Joe nodded, still looking out the window.

It took until they were an hour up in the air before he did, blue blanket pulled up around his shoulders, head angled so his glasses slowly slid down his nose. Nick took them off and tucked them away. Nick watched him for a while, Elvis Costello in his ear, the same as every other trip. Like nothing had changed.


End file.
